Petrified, he looked to where the shot had come from, rubbed his teary eyes to see a ghostly figure in the half-light of dawn pointing a shotgun towards him and shouting, “Get your ass off my land!”
Peter did two things. First, he wet himself; then he fainted.
***
The early morning sun bathed the pumpkin patch as a Police patrol car approached the field. Patrol Officer Coltrane got out along with Mrs Pulowski who saw her son lying face down in the dirt. They ran to his aid. She turned him over and was happy to see he was breathing. When she'd first saw him lying down there in the dirt, she’d thought he might have been dead.
"Peter, Peter, wake up, honey," she said, shaking him awake.
Peter stirred and shielded his eyes from the bright early morning sunshine. He was happy to see his mom’s smiling face.
“There you are, Peter. You’re safe now my little pumpkin,” Mrs Pulowski said as she lifted him up and hugged him tight.
“Mom, Mom, a monster came and was trying to kill me, said I was eating his babies–”
“His babies? What's this boy babbling about? You had a blow to the head, son?” said Officer Coltrane.
“No, no, the Pumpkin man was trying to kill me. He chased me just like the Bigelow Boys did, but-”
"Bigelow Boys? What are you babbling about now?"
“I’m sorry, Officer Coltrane, he must be confused,” his mom apologised.
“It’s true, I tell you. The Pumpkin Man was going to eat me and then the farmer, Old Man Johnston, came out of nowhere and BLAM! He blew it's scary pumpkin head off.”
“Son, you couldn’t have seen Old Man Johnson," Officer Coltrane looked perplexed. “Old Man Johnson died last night. He was in the hospital. That's where he'd been all week. This farm has been deserted all that time,” he explained.
“If my son said he saw someone shoot a monster, this Pumpkin Man, then that’s what happened,” Mrs Pulowski insisted.
“Maybe some of those chemicals they spray on the pumpkins have turned the boy’s head a little funny? He sure has eaten plenty of pumpkins,” Officer Coltrane hypothesised, pointing to all the empty pumpkin shells that were strewn around the field.
“My son is most certainly not funny in the head. Come on, Peter Pumpkin, time to go home.”
Between her and Officer Coltrane they supported the hobbling Peter down through the pumpkin patch towards the patrol car. They walked past another scarecrow, with a huge rotten pumpkin head. Peter winced with fear when he looked at its evil, grinning, cut-out face.
“Don’t be frightened, Peter Pumpkin. It’s only a silly old scarecrow, it can’t harm you,” his mom reassured him.
As they got into the car, Peter looked back once more. He was almost certain he saw the scarecrow’s head turn slowly to look at him.
PETER, PETER, PUMPKIN EATER BY GRAEME PARKER
Have you ever eaten to the point where you feel that you are going to puke? Eaten so much you truly believe you are going to burst? Crammed so much food down your neck that you worry the very next mouthful is going to kill you?
Some people can eat amounts of food that would amaze an average-sized elephant. A few people actually do it for a living, or at least for the prestige of eating the most in a competition. Eating competitions are infamous in America; they eat anything and everything.
This Halloween short story is rather aptly about a pumpkin pie-eating competition in Texas, set at the State Fair in Dallas, Fair Park. The undisputed King of pie-eaters in Texas was Peter Pumpkin, born Peter Pulowski. Peter loved pumpkin and pie so much he legally changed his name. As far as pie-eating went, he was the upper crust, the cream of the crop.
Peter weighed in at a scales-breaking 404 lbs, his competition fighting weight. He'd won the annual Texas State pumpkin pie-eating event for a record nine years in a row, and this year he was determined to make it ten. He was rumoured to be retiring after this year’s contest and handing over his pie-eating crown. Peter himself had stated that he was retiring under strict doctor's orders: overeating was killing him. Peter had told everybody and anybody who cared to listen that he wanted to go out with a bang by breaking his own pumpkin pie-eating world record of over twelve nine-inch pies in an incredible calorie-filled fifteen minutes.
The Kensington Pie Company was sponsoring the State Fair Pumpkin Pie-Eating Competition. The host was a lady called Prayer, a bubbly, busty blonde in her early twenties. Prayer had a body to die for; she was what Peter and his bar-room buddies would call a “real hot babe”, the type of woman that would have you up all night – and I don't mean with indigestion.
Peter was up against three other competitors in the final, two of whom were regulars of the competition. These were the Hanson twins, Chip and Dale. Both Chip and Dale were strangely as skinny as the proverbial rake, but like a lot of the skinniest of skinny people, they could eat and eat all day long and never put an ounce on. Peter wasn't worried about them, he knew he had the beating of the twins, but he was a little concerned about the last competitor, young Lucy Lampadgeo, as he'd never come up against her before. She was new and had breezed through the heats without even breaking a sweat.
Lucy was in her late teens with long dark hair. She was a big girl, a real big girl, almost as big as Peter, and a big girl meant a big stomach. But did she have a big heart? It would probably be enlarged, like Peter's, due to her obesity, but did she have the heart to win and take Peter's crown off him? That was the question Peter had pondered to himself backstage as they all stood in line waiting to be introduced to the frenzied crowd.
The Hanson Twins paced around nervously like prize fighters about to take to the ring, not even wanting to make eye contact with each other in case it broke their concentration. Peter and Lucy waddled around backstage and were now leaning against the stair rail that led to the back of the stage. Peter tried talking to Lucy, wishing her luck which she grunted back. He told her that he might not see her again as this was going to be his last competition, come what may, as he was under strict doctor’s orders to lose weight or he might die.
Lucy looked shocked to hear this and tried to say how sorry she was at the news, and to wish Peter a long, happy life after retirement, but the words didn't come out as she wanted. Peter confused her extreme shyness with her not wanting to lose her focus on the contest – or, as he thought to himself, being “a cold-hearted bitch”.
The State Fair was awash with noise and colour. Bright bunting connected the stalls and tents selling food, goods and produce from all over the State. There was a heady mix of aromas, barbecued pork chops mixing with the smell of fried chicken. There was lots of fried food, in fact. In Texas, they not only like a big portion but they like to deep-fry anything and everything from insects and cookies to sticks of butter.
Local bands were playing, farm animals were on show and being bought and sold, and people of all ages were laughing and enjoying themselves. Huge crowds had gathered around the main stage to watch the big pie-eating competition. Some had got there early to make sure they got the best vantage point to watch the cuisine-consuming carnage that would soon be taking place.
Prayer, the beautiful young representative of the Kensington Pie Company and host of the event, was dressed in tight, bright pumpkin-orange shorts and an even tighter brilliant-white vest top, which strained to hold her large, full breasts in check. Her voluptuous curves were dressed more for summer than October 31st, but Halloween in Texas is more often than not hot and sunny.
Prayer invited the contestants onto the stage one by one, but the best and biggest welcome was reserved for Peter himself who, as returning champion, was last into the limelight. He'd had his usual buzz-saw haircut freshly done that morning, and his closely-cropped head disappeared into his huge, fat neck – in fact all of him was large and shapeless. He wasn't ugly but he certainly had a fat-faced, snarly, bulldog quality. He had all the airs and graces of a country redneck.
He stood proud on his huge tree-trunks of legs, taking in
the adulation of the crowd. He was wearing very baggy, dark blue tracksuit exercise bottoms, not that he'd ever exercised in them in his entire life. He’d had to have the bottoms specially made with an expandable waist for him. He got all of his XXXXL clothes at the Big Is Beautiful store as he promoted their Big Boy range. His t-shirt was one of theirs too, white with a picture of his face on it. In the picture he was eating a big slice of pie, and the logo underneath it read: Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater.
The competitors took their seats behind their individual tables crammed full of pies. Each table strained under the weight of the burden. Prayer checked they were ready and, with the crowd’s help, counted them down.
“Five, four, three, two, one!” She sounded an air horn and screamed, “Time to eat pie!” As Prayer giggled and bounced up and down on the spot, Peter couldn't help but notice she wasn't wearing a bra. He smiled as he began clearing plate after plate. In competitions, Peter ate pie like it was going out of fashion. In fact they were all eating at breakneck speed, like human dustbins shovelling it in as quickly as they could.
The Hanson twins were going like trains and not paying attention to anything else, whereas Peter and Lucy seemed to be pacing themselves. As Peter finished his fifth pie, he noticed for the first time that the sponsor, Kensington Pie Company, had put its logo on the bottom of each pie dish. It consisted of a picture of a strange, eccentric-looking English gent wearing a top hat and holding a cane in one hand and a steaming pie in the other. There was something not right about the logo. The guy looked a bit sinister, but Peter snapped back into focus and grabbed his sixth pie.
As Peter took another big mouthful, he looked into the front row of the baying crowd, and was surprised to see a lot of beautiful, buxom women wearing matching skin-tight t-shirts. They were not your average eating competition crowd. The logo on the t-shirts was a picture of a pie and underneath were the words Eat Pie with an arrow pointing downwards. All of the women seemed transfixed, lost in orgasmic pleasure, as they watched the contestants force more and more pie into their mouths. Some people sure do get excited over the weirdest things.
Peter looked along the line of his competitors as he munched steadily. He could see Lucy was keeping up with him as she had her face in the plate, and she was now speeding up. The twins had obviously gone off too fast and seemed to be hitting the wall. The digestive gases were rising up and slowing them down. In his mind, Peter laughed at them. Such amateurs, to think they could beat him by setting off at that pace. An experienced competitive pie-eater knew that it wasn't a sprint but a carefully measured race.
They were now halfway through and Peter was on target to beat his record of twelve pies. The only worry was that Lucy was keeping pace with him. Though she was a big girl, she was quite attractive, Peter thought. He'd never been overly lucky with the ladies and had always blamed that on his size. But some of the ladies he'd known blamed it on his selfish arrogance, so what did he know?
Peter had always been a big guy. Ever since he was a kid, his folks had called him the human dustbin, but that nickname didn't stick. One day, at the age of nine, he went missing. His family were worried sick and looked everywhere for him. Eventually they found him sat in the middle of a pumpkin patch, chomping his way through half the farmer’s pumpkin harvest. Granted, he was as sick as a dog for days after that, but from that early age he'd shown he could not only eat just about anything, but also that he could eat and eat and eat. From that day forward Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater was born.
Peter liked big girls but desired and fantasised about girls more like Prayer. He was a realist; he had a mirror at home and he knew he wouldn't have a snowball's chance in hell of ever having any type of romantic relationship with a girl as beautiful as Prayer.
He caught Prayer's eye and she gave him a sexy wink and an excited little clap of encouragement. This spurred Peter on; he was already determined to win but was going to make sure by going all out for his record. He was using Lucy like a long-distance runner would use a pace setter. He was now matching her bite for bite.
Ten pies demolished, then eleven. Lucy and Peter were now physically struggling. They were both breathing heavily and mopping the sweat from their brows. Every mouthful seemed to make their stomachs swell up further into their throats. The twins had already spectacularly crashed out after being violently sick together halfway through pie number nine. “I guess twins are alike after all,” thought Peter as he ploughed on, not letting the smell of pumpkin vomit put him off the task in hand.
There were pie crumbs all down the front of his shirt, which was a soaking mess from the mixture of the sweat that was pouring out of him and the water he had spilled as he gulped down as much liquid as possible to wash down the dry pastry of the pies. There was no cream on the pies, and Peter liked cream. He glanced at Prayer’s long, lovely legs that seemed to go on forever. She was wearing the tiniest pair of shorts known to man. As she faced the crowd and tried to whip them up into even more of a frenzy, he noticed her pert bottom looked like a succulent peach. “Mmmm,” thought Peter, “I'd sure love to eat some cream off that.”
Peter again was getting distracted and snapped himself back into the present action when he realised Lucy had finished her twelfth pie. She was not just in the lead now, but she had matched his record! He went into overdrive and demolished the last piece of his twelfth pie. He was very angry with himself. He couldn't afford to be beaten by anyone, least of all by a girl.
He gave out an almighty fog-horn like belch. “That'll make some room!” shouted Peter, which got a huge cheer from the crowd.
Peter moved the thirteenth plate in front of him. He took a deep breath in preparation. Lucy and he were now dead level, bite for bite. They both looked over at the large digital clock which was counting down on the stage – they had less than a minute remaining. It was all down to how much pie would be left on that plate.
Peter attacked the pie as only he could. Lucy's face was awash with crumbs, water and saliva. “She sure doesn't look too pretty now,” thought Peter. Even though she was putting smaller and smaller pieces into her mouth, she still looked like she could eat all day.
Peter scoffed away at his pie, determined not only to win but to set that new record, and achieve subsequent immortality within pie-eating circles. He looked at the clock – five seconds left – and one last, huge triangle of pie to go.
Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Prayer was jumping around so much that she was in real danger of falling out of her tight, white vest. He looked at her and visualised Prayer’s naked firm, fit, toned body in front of him.
Lucy glanced over at Peter, who now looked lost and in a dejected world of his own, almost as he if could see his crown slipping. Nine years he'd won it. “Ten years with a record victory would be a wonderful way to sign off. It would make anyone's dream come true,” she thought. She held her last piece of pie between her fingers, hovering it tantalizingly in front of her mouth. Lucy could eat it, no problem, and part of her so wanted to taste victory. After all, winning is the American way. But she was young and could eat and win again, she realised. Peter had always been a bit of a hero to her, someone to look up to.
Peter looked at the last morsel of pie in his fingers and then in one swift movement he crammed it into his mouth ...
The timer went off and Peter leaned back in his chair, exhausted and full to absolute bursting point. He had thirteen empty pie plates in front of him. Lucy had made a valiant effort and pushed him harder than anyone had in all his years of eating competitively. The strain on his stomach was immense; he could feel the internal pressure on his organs.
Prayer squealed with delight and lifted his chunky fat arm in celebration.
“Our winner, Peter Pumpkin, the PUMP-KING pie-eater! A new world record of thirteen pumpkin pies!”
The crowd went wild.
She leant forward to kiss him on his pie-smeared cheek. She covered the microphone as she whispered into Peter's ear, “You sure
can eat pie, Peter. How would you like to eat some of mine?”
Before Peter had a chance to reply, or even double-check what he thought she had actually said, Prayer once again shouted into the microphone. “He tastes as good as he looks, girls!”
The crowd loved it. In the front row, the gorgeous women wearing the pie t-shirts bounced up and down in excitement.
Prayer leant close once more and this time said into the microphone, “How would you like to come to a special winners’ party with me and some of my girlfriends? We are busting to get to know you better, Peter, and hopefully you’ve got some energy left to eat a bit more pie…”
“Oh lady, I couldn't possibly eat anymore pie.”
“But, Peter, it’s special pie. Isn't it, girls?”
With this the crowd screamed, “YES!”
“Oh, I see, special pie. In that case, I like pie,” Peter grinned.
“Bring out the golden pie!” the buxom host called.
A couple of burly security guards brought out a large, golden, pie-shaped trophy. Peter, with what little energy he had left, lifted it above his head in triumph. He was the champion.
“I'm Peter the pie-eater. Show me a pie and watch me eat her!” he sang as he paraded his golden trophy around the stage. Like a demented, rapping grizzly bear, he stomped back and forth. The crowd sang along with him. Ironically, he now had the crowd eating out of his hands.
Lucy came over and offered a handshake of congratulation. Peter did the old juvenile trick of moving his hand up to his nose and waggling his fingers at the last moment. But he stopped short of going, “Nah-nah-nah-nee!” In a way he went one worse by crowing, “In your face, Lucy. I pounded you into the dirt. I had you beat before you even took the stage. Ten more years! Ten more years!” Peter cruelly taunted her by waving the trophy in her face.
“Wait, you said this was your last competition? You wanted go out in a blaze of glory, that's why I let you ...”
Scary Halloween Page 5